


tales out of school

by dashcommaslash



Category: Lewis (TV), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brooding, Dirty Talk, I can't believe I forgot to mention all the smoking, John Watson is Perfect, M/M, Masturbation, Mycroft is a bit of a slut, Mycroft is a good brother, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Smoking, UST, a bit of bdsm, corpses and corpse bits, discussion of child abuse/underage, discussion of consent/noncon, eventual rst, kind of vague references to other bad coping behavior, lestrade being hot, past broken arm, past cocaine use, past overdose, past schoolboy shenanigans, policemen being policemen, policemen smoking and flirting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-08-21
Updated: 2016-04-16
Packaged: 2017-11-12 14:20:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 7,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/492123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dashcommaslash/pseuds/dashcommaslash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the final day of term in Sherlock’s final year, he takes a prefect called James Hathaway to an empty room in the dormitory. Sherlock doesn’t even remember that afternoon until halfway through the tedious case in Oxfordshire, when Hathaway bows his head over the third body and Sherlock watches Lestrade watching the long and lovely tendons in the boy’s overbred English neck.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Full warning about age stuff: Two of the adults in this story had consensual sex when they were teenagers (aged 18 and 16, so both over the current age of consent in the UK). Most of the adults in this story are at least a little bit turned on by this memory/revelation/pairing and spend some time thinking about it while jerking off and/or having sex. The focus is on adult sexuality; teen sexual experience is relevant when it affects the sex lives of these adults.

On the final day of term in Sherlock’s final year at Harrow, he takes a prefect called James Hathaway, two years younger and not yet a cocky head boy, to an empty room in the dormitory. Sherlock wedges the door closed out of consideration and gives James a collection of vicious and exquisite bites to balance out the tedium of caution. It’s James’s first. Sherlock doesn’t even remember that afternoon until halfway through the tedious case in Oxfordshire, when Hathaway bows his head over the third body and Sherlock watches Lestrade watching the long and lovely tendons in the boy’s overbred English neck. Sherlock barely recognizes it without the bruises or the imaginary priest’s collar. When he turns around, John is watching, too.

 

 

 

***

Sherlock Holmes has not been in James Hathaway’s head for years, not in that way, not since James broke his arm at 4pm on a lovely Thursday afternoon in Michelmas term at uni and, at the A + E in Cambridge, met the blank eyes of the boy who’d shown him how to bite his own hand when he’d really prefer to scream. Watching Sherlock shiver and twitch, skinny hands gripping skinny elbows, James felt the tug of recognition. That had been the look, hadn’t it?—indifferent, clouded—but he hadn’t known what it meant at the time. 

It wasn’t the way James Hathaway liked to be looked at, and he didn’t like it any better the next twelve times he saw it, and he didn’t like people who lost control of themselves, although of course he loved them, as he tried to love everyone in a distant and Christian sort of way. And by that time he had lost a bit of control of himself once or twice, usually over the lines in someone’s body as he did on the field what only discipline could. And he'd been looked at, too, and touched, with--not with that look of someone who'd lost interest in life, anyway. And he was burning alive, half the time in those days, wondering whether the captain would touch him again.

But Sherlock Holmes is in Hathaway's head tonight, pulling his hair and biting his back and twisting his arms the way he hasn’t in eighteen years, showing him how not to choke, kissing him and calling him good. Hathaway grinds his cigarette in the ashtray and closes his eyes and hears that voice in a loop, the smooth one Hathaway took such pains to learn, dripping carelessly from that mouth. He hates the sound of it, but it also, well. But when he unzips and takes himself in hand the image starts slipping, so that it isn’t just Sherlock, but that other cop, too—the older one—and he thinks,  _have they, have they_ , and shocked, he imagines a DI’s steady hand gripping Sherlock’s skinny junkie hip, another on his neck, and a firm, rough voice in his ear, and it's James, not Sherlock, and he is kneeling in that room again waiting to be taught and  _god, god_ —

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hathaway and Lestrade go to the pub and take a walk.

Lestrade is stubbing out a second cigarette and telling the story of his summer job as a circus clown. He is trying to be as amusing as possible. It's just that he's so tired and the air here is too lush and the young sergeant smiling so crookedly at him outside this ruinously old pub on the ninth night of a serial murder investigation that is going nowhere.

He thinks he's saying that he ought to have been an actor. The ale is very good, and the sergeant laughs with youthful weariness. "I'm sorry, sir, I don't feel too bad for your missed opportunities. There was this one teacher at my school who thought I had the makings of an actor. I worshipped him, but he wanted me to give up rowing and following rules and I didn't want to get my funny little hat taken away. I could be a film star now."

Lestrade looks at the kid a bit more sharply. There's something here he should know, and then he does. "How old are you?"

"Why?" he says warily.

"Because I'm trying to decide how many years apart you and Sherlock Holmes were in school. You knew each other as lads."

James goes a bit overly casual. "How do you figure, sir?"

Greg leans forward. "For Christ's sake, two bloody aristocrats like you, the same age, funny little hats. Don't you remember those murders down at your end--well, I guess you wouldn't, would you? At any rate, it's not exactly the science of deduction."

"Yes, sir, I suppose you are a detective."

"Yes, Hathaway, when will people remember that about us?"

Hathaway smiles.

"Well?"

"Well, what?"

"Well, what was he like?"

"Who, sir?"

"You know who."

James smiles blankly.

"Okay, what was Sherlock Holmes like as a boy? Completely mad?"

"I suppose," says James. "I didn't know him that well. He was two forms ahead of me. I know he was a bit of a rebel. I wasn't, if you haven't deduced that yet."

Greg watches him keenly. "Oh," he says.

"What?" 

"You had a, I don't want to offend you, man, but you had a bit of a, a schoolboy crush on him, didn't you?"

Hathaway flushes. "No," he says. "I really didn't know him at all. I doubt he even remembers me. Actually I'd rather keep it that way if you don't mind."

"Good God," says Lestrade. "What in hell did Sherlock do to you? I'll kill him."

"Nothing," says Hathaway. "Actually, sir, do you want another drink?"

Lestrade does, but what he really wants is another cigarette. The air is so damn clean here, it reminds him of, well. So after two more rounds, during which they both say respectful and admiring things about Lewis and Hathaway drums restlessly on his knees and Lestrade gets him to admit about the tapes ("they are breathing poison, you are stronger"), Lestrade pulls Hathaway into the street and says, "Let's walk, man, if you smoke in the dark and no one sees you it doesn't count." The street is narrow and dark as all the streets here seem to Lestrade to be, and Lestrade pulls two fags out of his pockets and lights Hathaway's with his own. They lean against a 400-year-old wall. He feels very drunk, and in a way rather young. 

"I'm 34," says Hathaway. 

"Damn Sherlock Holmes," says Lestrade. 

James laughs. "No need for alarm, sir. You were right, in a way. I suppose I did have a bit of a schoolboy crush on him."

"And he deduced it?"

"A bit," agrees Hathaway. "But it's just as well he doesn't remember."

When did his cigarette go out? Lestrade can't remember. He holds it up and, with the other hand, touches Hathaway's wrist. Hathaway obediently leans in, touches his cigarette to Greg's. Greg holds James's hand steady as they inhale. He coughs. "So you two got off? What, in some dormitory in the dark of night? I don't know quite how these things work."

"It was in a dormitory," says James, "but not in the dead of night. It was the end of term, you know, so no one was in, just some desks and beds and bookcases and things. And he, well, I think he felt a bit sorry for me."

James is taller than Greg but, out of what must be unconscious deference, he's slid down a bit against the wall. Greg realizes that he's never really stepped back. "Did he invite you there to look at some corpses?"

"He didn't invite me at all. He just said, follow me, James Hathaway. Like that, in my ear. I was surprised he knew my name. And he brought me to an empty room and jammed the door and he said, sit on the desk. And he took off my tie and kissed me."

It crosses Greg's mind that Hathaway must taste like an ashtray now, same as him. It's not a taste that's ever put him off. "And?" 

Hathaway's ears burn, and he says quickly, "And then he pressed me over the bottom bunk and held me by the arms and kissed my back. My back. Can you imagine? I was breakfast to him. That's why I say I say it's as well he doesn't remember."

There's a silence. "I feel sorry for him," says Greg finally, "if he doesn't remember that."

James tilts his head sideways to meet Greg's eyes. It's a tall man's way of looking up, and it's exactly the last thing Greg can stand, and suddenly Greg is pressing Hathaway against the wall and tasting exactly what he imagined, a night filled with cigarette smoke and stupid choices, his favorite taste in the world. Hathaway doesn't resist, but the way he grabs at Lestrade's wrist isn't exactly an unambiguous yes, and Greg remembers who and where he is and pulls away. "Sorry, sorry," he says.

"No, it's--"

"No, I, that was eight different kinds of wrong, Jesus."

Then Hathaway is grabbing his wrist again and yes, that is a yes, and Greg's phone chirps and James says, "Do you have to get that," and Greg doesn't. But a minute is enough for him to think of what he's doing, what he's been doing all night, plying a closeted subordinate with alcohol, getting increasingly predatory the more vulnerable the guy gets. He's half hard, isn't he, just from thinking about Sherlock and Hathaway as schoolboys, and if that isn't sick. So he says, "Actually, yes, I think I do have to deal with this. Are you okay to walk home?"

"I'm fine," says Hathaway.

Greg is fine, too. He's great. He's so great that when he stumbles into Lewis's silent apartment at half-two, after getting lost three times, he brushes his teeth and washes out his unsurpassably fragrant and guiltless mouth and can barely sleep for imagining a young Sherlock pushing two fingers inside a younger Hathaway, their school trousers around their ankles as Hathaway shouts into the mattress. He wraps his hand around himself, jerks off in complete silence with half his fist inside his mouth, and comes harder than he has in months.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John brings Sherlock coffee in bed. They talk of this and that.

"I saw Hathaway this morning," says John. "Nice lad."

"He’s my age," says Sherlock, sitting up and taking the offered coffee. "Hardly a lad. Bit stiff, wouldn’t you say?"

"Somehow you seem older," says John, sitting on the bed and pulling off his shoes. "World-weary. I couldn’t say why. Anyway, Lestrade doesn’t think he’s stiff, does he?"

"Mmm," says Sherlock, drinking the whole thing in one go and setting the cup on the nightstand. He picks up his phone and scrolls through emails, setting his head on John’s thigh.

"He’s more your type, I should have thought," says John, stroking his hair.

"Which one—Lestrade or the lad?"

"That’s not funny yet," says John.

"Mmm. Give it time. He’s  _not_  my type. Public school, you know. I don’t shit in the old cricket fields from whence I came. I like them a bit rougher, you know. Northern. Good with guns."

"Your other type," says John, and Sherlock looks up sharply at his tone. "Blond and insecure, isn’t it? The quiet ones beg the loudest?"

"Oh, John," says Sherlock, sitting up and looking gravely into John’s eyes. He traces John’s lower lip with his thumb. John doesn’t stop him, so he drags his thumb down John’s Adam’s apple and rests his hand lightly—very lightly—against the base of John’s throat. John shudders. "How is our Irene?"

"I know it was a lifetime ago," says John. "It doesn’t bother me. Why not just say, John, I fucked the very handsome young sergeant we’ll be seeing every night and day in Oxford? We were boys and it meant nothing."

"Firstly, John," says Sherlock earnestly, "he is not young or handsome. He’s my age, almost, and he’s pale and gangly and weird-looking. You think he’s handsome only because he reminds you of me." He’s backed John against the head of the bed now and is crowding him, straddling his thighs. John is letting him, which is a good sign. He isn’t really angry. He wants Sherlock to persuade him there's nothing to be angry about.

"Secondly," says Sherlock, "I didn’t know he’d be here. It's not my fault he became a policeman. I didn’t even know who he was when I saw him." He moves his hand down John’s chest, palm flat.

John looks grudging, unsure, ready to forgive. "I suppose you deleted him?" 

"You could say so," says Sherlock. "You could also say I just don’t remember being 18." He starts unbuckling John’s belt and this time John stops him. Sherlock’s stomach sinks.

"So that’s why you look so guilty," says John. He doesn’t sound mad. His hand is through Sherlock’s.

"What?" says Sherlock, looking straight at him.

"I thought it was the Lestrade business all over again. But it isn’t, is it? You’re not guilty because you didn’t tell me, or because you still want him. You’re guilty because you don’t remember. You don’t know what you did."

"I didn’t  _do_  anything," says Sherlock.

"I don’t think you did, says John. In fact, I know you didn’t. I do know you. You’re not capable of what you’re thinking—"

"He isn’t actually my age," says Sherlock. "This was—"

"For God’s sake," says John, and he has Sherlock’s hands in his lap. "I don’t care what year this was. I’ve seen you high. I’ve seen you a million things, but I’ve let you tie me up, and I’ve let you hurt me for pleasure, and I wouldn’t have done if I didn’t know what you are, you aren’t capable of that. You're not capable of enjoying it. You might have hurt his feelings, you’d hurt mine if you didn’t remember fucking me, but you were a kid then—you didn’t do anything worse than what kids do." 

It's true. It might be true. What matters is that John knows it, which makes it substantially true, which makes Sherlock provisionally forgiven and everything basically okay. John has been compromised by falling in love with Sherlock, Sherlock knows, and John is no longer capable of believing that Sherlock is not, in some profound way, good. John thinks Sherlock was good before John, which is ridiculous. But there's nothing he can do for it now but believe. He has to trust that if he were in the wrong, if he had to worry about it, if there were something wrong with James for which he were personally responsible, if he needed to apologize, John would tell him.

"You’re good," says Sherlock for what feels like the zillionth time, bowing his head, leaning in to kiss. "You’re too good for me."

"No," says John. "I’m just good enough. I’m blond and insecure and I want you to hurt me for fun. Is that what you want?"

This time when Sherlock goes to unbuckle his belt John doesn’t stop him. When Sherlock squeezes John’s throat and bites his lip, hard, while pushing lubed fingers inside him, John doesn’t suppress a yell. He whines and begs and shouts like he always does, but this time, when Sherlock whispers, "Whose are you?" John says to him, "You’re mine, you’re mine, you’re mine."

****

In the shower, Sherlock says, "I’m sending Irene chocolates."

"Oh?" says John. "You didn’t seem so keen on her when she was texting me about your schoolboy adventures with Sergeant Hathaway."

"Oh, I don’t know," says Sherlock. "She’s an interfering bitch, but she's trying to be kind. She said to me once, back before we were together, that you were the kind of man who’d be a better fuck the more jealous you were."

John smiles.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hathaway, Lestrade, Lewis, and Hobson look at a corpse and chat awkwardly.

Hathaway puts away three coffees in the break room before walking into Lewis's office, but Lewis still laughs when he sees him. "How was your night, lad?"

"Lovely, sir," says Hathaway, wincing. "I was just showing our guests from London the local sights."

"Well, I look forward to seeing the other bloke. Shall we?"

In the mortuary, Laura is lifting the sheet and showing something to Lestrade. 

"Ah, speak of the devil. Hello, mates." 

"Morning, Lewis, Hathaway," says Lestrade. He actually does look worse than what Hathaway saw in the mirror this morning. For a cool minute, Hathaway feels none of last night's pull, just disappointment and relief. Lestrade looks up for a moment, meets Hathaway's eyes, and looks back down at the wound in the woman's chest.

"Morning, sir," says Hathaway. "Dr. Hobson." He stands neither conspicuously close to nor conspicuously far from Lestrade, which puts him at the girl's pelvis on Laura's right. He still feels a bit sick, but it's not the first time he's bent over a corpse while hung over, and it won't be the last. The chill in the morgue is rather pleasant, somehow easing the pressure in his head.

Laura glances at him, amused. "Robbie, James, I was just showing DI Lestrade the ligature marks on the victim's wrists. They're just a day too old to have been made by the murderer. In fact, given her posture and the absence of signs of a struggle, I'd say she was murdered in her sleep. It doesn't fit your killer's pattern."

Lewis looks at her. "So the ligature marks are just..." 

"Precisely," she says. "Recreational."

Lestrade shifts almost imperceptibly. His shoulders rise minutely. His belt slides a few millimeters on his hip. Hathaway watches him swallow, breathe, blink, sees the stubble on his jaw, watches him lick his lips. His mouth is slightly open. He isn't doing anything. That wasn't even a reaction, probably, just an unconscious fidget. What matters about it is what it does, what it doesn't stop doing, to James.

Lewis gets the implication more quickly than usual, presumably meaning that he and Laura are on again. "Huh. We didn't find any rope or anything in the room, did we, Hathaway," he muses. 

"No, sir," says Hathaway, letting his eyes rake over Lestrade's shoulders on their way to Lewis's face.

"So that means her lover must have it." Lewis smiles, obviously energized. "Let's search the rooms again. If any of the boys has rope, he'll be the one."

"Could be a girl, sir," says Hathaway.

"A girl?" says Lewis, genuinely surprised. "Why would two girls--that doesn't fit, does it?" He looks, embarrassed, at Hathaway, who flushes.

Laura looks amused. "Sorry, Robbie, what doesn't fit?"

"You know, whips and chains." He barrels ahead, embarrassed and dogged. "Girls don't- well, there's more, you know, equality, isn't there? Female empowerment and so on. Doesn't really go along with violent games, does it?"

Hathaway wishes the floor would swallow him. He doesn't look at anyone but Lewis. If he looks at Laura, he'll laugh. If he looks at Lestrade, he'll--he doesn't know what will happen. Unfortunately, Lewis looks at him in supplication. "Am I missing something, then?"

 _Yes, everything_ , thinks Hathaway. But he doesn't know exactly what to say. He's not an expert on what girls do together, although even he has seen videos; he does live in this century. He knows a bit about violent games, but he would, wouldn't he? He can't say any of this to Lewis, whose knowledge of his weaknesses, while bad enough, isn't close to complete.

After a long silence, Lestrade rescues them. "Alright," he says, rubbing his face, "let's not rule anyone out just yet, yeah?"

Everyone agrees.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade and Hathaway sit on Lewis's porch.

Greg gets to Lewis's at half-ten, changes into a pair of jeans, and sits around drinking beer and thinking about the victim's mother. There'd been something a bit odd about her, hadn't there? By the time he's paced the room about thirty times biting his thumb, he figures he might as well walk to Boots. Of course it starts to rain.

He's bundled in his leather jacket with wet hair and a new pack of fags, trying to keep his cigarette moderately dry and reading Sherlock's fifteenth text message as he walks, when he nearly crashes into Hathaway, who's holding a closed umbrella and, with the rest of his considerable mental energy, apparently staring concentratedly into absolutely nothing beside a municipal library that's been closed for hours. Hathaway startles and, for an awkward moment, Greg worries he's damp and disheveled beyond immediate recognition. Then Hathaway says, "Sorry. I think I just realized something rather important, sir. What are you doing out here? Aren't you staying with them by Lady Margaret Hall?"

He means with John and Sherlock, who've got posh free lodgings in the rose-covered empty house of some Oxford don who owes Sherlock a very large favor and who may also, John has strongly implied, be some sort of ex-boyfriend of Mycroft's. Greg's privately as happy to be kipping at Lewis's as at 221b-on-University-Parks, thanks. Hathaway's on his way home, but he'll walk Greg down the lane back to Lewis's, if he wants to share the umbrella and, it's implied, the pack of cigarettes.

"You know Lewis knew my da?" Greg says, handing him one. "Reminds me a bit of him, even though I guess he's closer to my age."

"Reminds me nothing of mine, luckily," smiles Hathaway.

Greg grins back. "Want to tell me what you worked out just now, lad? You seemed pretty thoughtful."

"Oh, it'll keep, inspector. Think I'll sit on it for now, if you don't mind, wait till I've confirmed it." But he looks sure--almost sure. 

***

They end up sitting on Lewis's porch. Greg is telling the story of how he met John Watson: the pink lady, the cab driver's body, Sherlock. Hathaway can tell he's leaving things out, perhaps lots of things. He doesn't blame him. The case was obviously compromised sixteen different ways from the word go, and while Hathaway can tell that Lestrade was straight, perhaps the only straight thing about the case, there were no arrests or surviving witnesses, and the rest is, therefore, painful.

He can also sense that Lestrade is telling this story to test his own pain threshold, the way you niggle at a loose tooth or the way Hathaway savors hunger before sleep, and that he's pleased with how much less it stings than last time. Hathaway doesn't suppose that's because a job badly done fades with time. Not for Greg.

Their knees are touching, and Lewis will be home any minute, which means they aren't going to kiss, but God, Hathaway wants that. "You know," he says instead, exhaling a slow stream of smoke, "I'm a detective too, sir."

"Meaning what?" says Lestrade.

"Meaning," says Hathaway, dropping his voice as he leans forward, placing his elbows on parted knees, " _you_  and Sherlock Holmes." 

"For Christ's sake," says Lestrade, laughing and looking to the side as he stubs out his cigarette. He shakes his head.

Hathaway smirks primly. "Still a sore spot, then?"

"Ah," says Lestrade, rubbing his hand over his face. "Just don't--well, you wouldn't."

"No, sir, your sordid histories are safe with me. Scout's honor." 

Lestrade laughs again. "Yeah, they would be, wouldn't they? I suppose you'd like to hear about it? Quid pro quo?"

"I think I can work it out," says Hathaway. "Began at your place."

"Yes," says Lestrade.

"You let him take a shower at your place."

"Yes."

"Do I need to elaborate?"

"No, ta. I think you've covered the key points," says Lestrade. "Anyway, it's long over now."

"Yes," says Hathaway. "It must have been by the time John Watson came into it. That's the kind of men you both are."

"If you say so," says Lestrade.

"You and John Watson, I mean, sir. So that doesn't leave an overly long window. Just time for a bit of fun between friends?"

Lestrade smiles, conceding. "What more could it be?" he says. "He was 32 and I was 45 with two kids."

Hathaway looks up at him, fixes his eyes on his, says seriously, "That doesn't matter."

"Oh, no? What's your explanation?"

"Sherlock Holmes is a maniac," says Hathaway. "He's completely wrong for you. You were never in love with him. You liked--pardon me, but you liked to go to bed with him. Because you knew he was wrong for you. Because you told yourself he was too young. Because he's a maniac. You knew it would never go anywhere, so you were reckless. I bet you never did anything so exciting in your life."

Hathaway looks a bit shocked at himself, but stubborn, too, daring Lestrade to meet his eyes. Lestrade does. "No," he says with deadly calm, "I never had. And I did think I was in love with him, at the time. But you're right, I wasn't. I could do anything with him. It was--fun. I got a bit carried away. Alison found out. Things got a bit too serious for Sherlock then. He was married to his work and he liked--well, he didn't like anyone who was too available."

Hathaway nods. "No, he wouldn't. And what about John Watson?"

Lestrade sighs. "Yeah, except for his keeper, bloody John Watson. If they aren't bloody soul mates."

Hathaway says, "That's not what I was asking, sir."

"Jesus Christ," says Lestrade wearily, rubbing his face. "Why aren't you an inspector yet. Come down to London and relieve me of my job, lad. I'm too old for this."

Hathaway pulls Lestrade's hand away from his face, holds onto his wrist for a moment, looking him in the eye. "No," he says, "You're not. It would be a shame if you thought so. If Sherlock Holmes or John Watson or--anyone--made you think so."

Lestrade jerks his hand away, then moves it to Hathaway's thigh. Christ. Christ. Lestrade's eyes are dark and his hand is steady as he slides it almost to the crease of James's hip. But he's waiting. He's actually looking at James like--waiting for James to do something. James doesn't remember what comes next. He's hard and he wants Lestrade to touch him so badly and, if he remembers correctly, that part happens now. 

Just as Hathaway remembers what he's supposed to do, Lewis's car pulls into the driveway.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The case hits a rough patch and the police pursue unlikely theories.

Everything about the case is simultaneously horrific and frustrating for the next four days. They find six more pairs of hands, but all of them belong to previously recovered feet, so only Sherlock finds any new information in them. James's epiphany at the library and Greg's hunch about the mother turn out to be virtually identical, meaning it's the mother who, while sleepwalking, killed the daughter. Only by the time they get to the mother's house she's been chopped into bits, too, so no closure there. Sherlock drags John hither and thither and Lewis does the same to Hathaway, while Lestrade smokes like a chimney and reinterrogates the barmaids and abortion doctors and modern languages postgraduates Lewis and Hathaway have already spoken to. Periodically, everyone paces before the evidence board and tears at his hair. Days last 18 hours for anyone who cares to sleep at all, and no day allows Hathaway more than a brush of hands or thirty seconds alone with anyone other than Lewis.

The only excitement comes when Hathaway comes to the station one morning and finds John Watson is being treated as a suspect. Lewis is interrogating him laconically in the conference room, and Sherlock is in a rage. Lestrade is on the phone, saying, "Anything else, ma'am?" and looking as if he wishes he were dead, his hand on Sherlock's arm in a parody of restraint. Hathaway shoots him a look of sympathy. He also glances, quickly, at the hand, and feels immediately ridiculous. There are five coffees on the table, four unclaimed and one in front of Watson, and Hathaway drinks two of them.

John Watson is giving Lewis a précis of his surgical expertise. Yes, he would be perfectly capable of amputating hands and feet from any number of victims. When he kills people, though, he prefers to shoot them with hollow-point bullets and have done with it.

It's a joke, but Hathaway blanches. Lestrade gives him a miserable half-smile. Sherlock grins viciously and says, "Inspector, would you mind wrapping up this half-baked little charade at your convenience? Only, John is rather useful and I need him to help me do your job."

Hathaway bristles. Lewis smiles--Hathaway knows he's thinking about their solve rate versus London's--and says, "We don't actually think Dr. Watson is guilty, Mr. Holmes."

"John," says John.

"But we can't just ignore the fact that the murdered man had Dr. Watson's--John's--photograph in his pocketbook. I'm trying to find out how that happened, if you don't mind very much."

Sherlock smiles. "It isn't John's fault he's so popular, is it, Inspector? Now if every victim had a photograph of John..."

"Sherlock," says Lestrade, now off the phone and looking, if possible, even more suicidal.

"It's fine, Sherlock," says John.

"No," says Sherlock. "I'm making a point. What if a victim or, say, a suspect, had a photograph of Sergeant Hathaway in his or her possession?"

Hathaway's eyes meet Sherlock's for the first time since he's been here. What the fuck is he thinking? Sherlock gives him a puzzlingly searching glance for half a second before looking coolly away.

"I suppose we'd have to ask Sergeant Hathaway some questions, too," says Lewis. "Look, Dr. Watson, John, that's all for now. Just stay where we can find you. I'm sure you will."

"Oh," says Sherlock, "that's funny, because I'd wager anything you care to name that the late Professor Grünig has a photograph of Sergeant Hathaway tucked somewhere in the third drawer of his desk. I suggest that you have Inspector Lestrade perform the interrogation, for the sake of professional detachment. Well, good day for now, officers. Coming, John?"

As John and Sherlock sweep out, Hathaway and Lestrade do not look at each other. Lewis looks at Hathaway. "Ah, what's this, then?" he says. "I expect that was rubbish? We searched Grünig's office up and down yesterday."

"I imagine you'll find a photograph of me there by now, sir," says James.

***

In fact, they find a set of photographs, all candids of James at 20 years old walking in various moods and lights across the Cambridge campus, and a full set of intelligence exams and dental x-rays. As a result of this flamboyant display, James ends up sitting across from Lestrade in Interview 2 around tea time. He thinks the recorder is off but he's distracted. Lewis is watching, anyway. Lestrade is telling him, and by extension Lewis, that this is a routine procedural interview, that all signs point to the evidence being planted sloppily by Sherlock Holmes. Why does Hathaway think Sherlock Holmes would want to plant evidence of his involvement, asks Lestrade.

"If I had to speculate," says Hathaway, "I'd imagine to revenge himself on Inspector Lewis for suspecting Dr. Watson."

"Yeah," says Lestrade. "Well, would you mind telling me your movements on Wednesday evening?"

"I was alone at home," says Hathaway drily. "I was drinking and listening to choral music, and _brooding_ , sir. I was thinking of dark things. The transience of life, the evil of human nature, the usual sort of thing."

Lestrade smiles as if unwillingly, as eager to finish as he is reluctant to continue. "Okay, thanks," he says. "Do you have anything to corroborate your whereabouts? Browsing history? Phone calls? Emails?"

"I may have made a phone call or two," says Hathaway.

"To whom?"

"To you, sir, actually," says Hathaway. "I called to see if you still had my umbrella, must have been right around the time the professor was murdered. You might check your mobile. But you didn't pick up. I suppose that makes you a suspect too, sir."

Lewis, disgusted, sweeps in and calls an end to the interview.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mystery is solved; John Watson addresses a lingering concern.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gentle warning for eventual vague references to possible noncon/dub-con/underage (now listed in main fic warnings).

Forensic analysis makes it quite clear how the victim was using the photograph of John that he kept in his desk drawer.

It is a candid shot--a _Polaroid_ \--taken late last summer, the day before Sherlock left for America. John looks terribly young, for John, his face open and unlined in the cool summer light. He is alone in the picture, clearly looking at Sherlock. They've just showered, the longest shower of their life together, and John leaned with his hand on the wall and his head in the crook of his arm, trying not to bang his head, and wouldn't open his eyes. He wouldn't open them even when he finally turned around to face Sherlock, just twined his arms around Sherlock's neck and trembled and trembled as they kissed and felt unreasonably happy for a man about to say goodbye. "You're slippery like this," observed Sherlock, and licked his face to see if any of it was tears, but it was only water.

They walked in Russell Square that burnished afternoon, and John turned around to say something to Sherlock, rubbing unselfconsciously at the reddened skin on his forearm, around the tattoo, and then an amateur paparazzo took this Polaroid, presumably, and then Sherlock's flight was at midnight. Laura says the victim probably bought the photo off the photographer--"Bad luck," she says, "not getting you both in the picture, it might have retailed for more"--and kept it in his wallet for a time before shoving it in the drawer for more occasional use. Hathaway snorts and Watson blushes tomato-red. Sherlock looks annoyed.

Lestrade says, "Once again, Captain Watson narrowly escapes the plank by virtue of his sex appeal, eh, Sherlock," and Sherlock says, "Shut up,  _Greg_ ," and storms off, Watson following.

Lestrade looks at Hathaway. Hathaway smiles and looks at his shoes.

"A pint, Sergeant?" says Lestrade. "Detective Inspector? Dr. Hobson?" 

"Don't mind if we do," says Lewis.

*************

Sherlock has been worse than usual tonight, scraping on a ukelele he's dug up in the house without even tuning it. He brings three glasses of water to bed, none of them apparently for John, and takes off his shirt, and while John dozes he gets in and out of bed every ten or so minutes. Sherlock accompanies this behavior, which wouldn't ordinarily wake John, by quite unnecessarily switching the lights on and off just as frequently. John can sleep either way, of course, but he can't sleep at a disco or in an air raid, and so he wakes and sits up. "What is it?" he says. "Is it the case?"

"No," says Sherlock, "I mean, of course. I just can't stop thinking about, well."

"You love thinking," says John, still drowsy. "Is this about--this isn't about the case. Is this about--God, is this about _me_?"

Sherlock doesn't say anything for a long time, which John takes as a yes. "It's about something I did or something I said? Or...the pictures?"

Another pause. 

“Kids do a lot of things,” says Sherlock finally.

“Ah,” says John, alert now, and relieved. “Yes, I know. I’ve been thinking how sorry I am I said it like that."

"You remember," says Sherlock.

"Yes," says John, pulling Sherlock to his chest, but Sherlock stays stiff--"and I'm sorry.  _You_  weren’t  _kids_ , though.”

“No?” says Sherlock. “What was I?”

“Victor told me a story once,” says John.

Sherlock groans, leaning back. “Victor?”

“Yes, Victor,” says John. “It was that weekend, I think you remember, when I discovered that you’ll sleep if I put you in the car, like an infant. it also keeps you from driving.”

Sherlock sighs. “John, something about your nearly pathological inability to withhold your favors from men I have slept with strikes me as slightly inappropriate. For once I would like to close my eyes in the car for five minutes without waking up to Victor or Lestrade or some Old Harrovian exchanging manly intimacies with you.”

“Listen to me,” says John. He rubs an absent-minded circle into Sherlock’s bare shoulder and, when Sherlock flinches, grips his shoulder hard. Sherlock relaxes. “I think you know what I’m going to tell you, but I’m going to tell you anyway.”

Sherlock doesn’t say anything, so John continues. “He says you taught him to be a top.”

Sherlock snorts.”Yes, by topping him, like an idiot. I was fantastically successful at that. What a timely ego boost, John.”

John ignores him. “He says that you taught him how to tell if a bottom really wants it.”

Sherlock looks blank. “What, the thing with the nostrils?”

“No,” says John. “You said to ask the bottom.”

Sherlock’s been fidgeting, but he stills. “I don’t remember that.”

“Of course you don’t, you silly bugger,” says John. “That’s why I’m telling you. You said to him, apparently, the day after you met him, ‘You’re going to suck my cock, Trevor, and I’m not going to let you come until you finish. Does that suit you?’ You said that, god.”

Sherlock laughs, actually shocked. “Victor was having you on,” he says.

“No, he wasn’t,” says John. “I’m not  _that_  stupid. Tell me, how old were you then?”

Sherlock doesn’t answer, so John does. “Eighteen, I suppose. Same age as with  _Hathaway,_  weren’t you?”

“So what, you’re saying I didn’t have much time in the middle to learn it?”

“Well, you didn’t learn it from Victor,” says John. 

Sherlock now goes very still indeed. “No,” he says. “I must have learnt it before.”

“Shit,” says John. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” says Sherlock. “It’s fine. It’s fine. You’re right. I was never  _kids_.”

“I know, but”—John pulls Sherlock around to face him, kisses his nose—”he shouldn’t have done it, Sherlock.” He doesn’t know why he’s never said this before, about Sherlock’s first lover. Maybe he has. Maybe just never when he knew Sherlock was listening.

“I was in love with him,” Sherlock reminds him.

“Yes,” says John, “and that’s why he shouldn’t have done it. You’re not like him, you know.”

“I wasn’t worried about it,” says Sherlock. “He  _asked_ , apparently. I didn’t know I learned that from him. Apparently he was a model citizen.”

“You’re not like him,” says John. “Hathaway must have seemed very young to you, I know. But it’s only two years. You  _weren’t_  his teacher, actually.”

“So you’re saying I asked, too. That’s your point.”

“One of them, yeah,” says John. “Anyway, just look at Hathaway for two seconds, won’t you, Sherlock, without all this”—he waves his hand in front of Sherlock’s face—“in the way. Does he hate you? Did you hurt him? Has he been dreaming of you, of you hurting him, of getting his own back? By the way, you know he isn’t, you know he actually has nothing against you except thinking you’re a complete dick, or you wouldn’t have pulled the stunt with the pictures.”

Sherlock laughs and turns, looking John in the face. “Oh, John. It was precious. It was so good. Tell me I’m amazing, I can take it.”

John finally relaxes, lies back on the pillows and pulls Sherlock on top of him. “Yes,” he says, kissing Sherlock’s jawbone. “You’re more than amazing. I’m sure Lestrade will be sending you his thanks.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Interlude: some background.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this a long time ago, and you may have read it on tumblr then. A conversation with ancientreader about her marvelous story Transports got me thinking about this story again and wanting to end the hiatus. In that story, a kinky adult Sherlock also looks back to an "affair" he had with an older man at age 14, but largely because Sherlock's family behaves so differently in these two stories, the ramifications of the abuse are also quite different. Warning here for an extended, but not at all graphic, discussion of child sexual abuse, and vague references to various bad ways of coping.

 

“But we can _make_ them understand,” he says, foolishly, and Robert just says, “Oh, _Sherlock_.”

************************************************

By the time he bursts into Mycroft’s rooms his throat and nose are raw from crying. His hands are a mess–-lacerated knuckles, half-moons on his palms, tooth marks on the backs where he screamed into them, and later he’ll start on his arms, too. Mycroft startles but doesn’t really look surprised. “Well,” he says, and his calmness makes Sherlock furious.

 “I hate you,” Sherlock says. “I came here to tell you that. That you had no right to do—whatever you did—and I hate you. And to congratulate you on ruining my life.”

 “Oh, Sherlock,” said Mycroft. “I’m sorry.” But Sherlock he doesn’t look sorry—not sorry that he has ruined Sherlock’s life. Only sorry that Sherlock is taking it so badly.

“ _Oh, Sherlock, I’m sorry_ ,” mimics Sherlock, and he can’t help tears of rage from springing to his eyes again. “I’ve been hearing a lot of that today. I would kill you if I could. You and Mother.” 

“Sherlock—“

“And the worst bit is that you are such a filthy hypocrite. As if you haven’t tried to shag every tutor who’s even looked at you, every dirty old man in Cambridge—“

“The difference is that I’m not 14!” says Mycroft. “For God’s sake, Sherlock. Ruin your life? Do you know what should happen to him now? But Mummy wanted to keep you out of it. As it is, well...”

“He was _nice_ to me!” howls Sherlock, and to his shame the tears rip from him again. “He likes me! He was the _only person_  who understood me, who thought I was brilliant, why can’t you let me have that one thing?“

“Of course he was  _nice_ to you,” says Mycroft. “He wanted, why can’t you see—he’s a _child molester_ , Sherlock.“

Sherlock has had more than enough of everything, but it’s the word _child_ that makes him grab the letter opener and hurl it, like a dart, into the wall. He knows he can’t speak aloud without _gurgling_ his words, so he waits and waits and wipes snot from his face with the back of his hand and waits some more and finally, in as low a voice as he can manage, he says, “Leave me the fuck alone, Mycroft. I never want to see you again.”

 

 


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A conversation about photographs.

"How do you suppose Sherlock got this evidence?" Lewis says to Watson.

"Possibly the same way he got the Carl Powers evidence?" says Watson politely. "By committing the crime himself and inventing a supervillain to take the blame? Seems plausible to me."

Lestrade winces. "That’s not funny."  

"Not yet," agrees Watson.

"So how in hell–-wait, of course. You were at Cambridge together, weren’t you lads? Were you–-friends?" Lewis looks confused, then embarrassed.

"Hardly," says James.

Everyone looks everywhere but at one another, except for Lewis, who looks at everyone and then at Hathaway. "What, then? Enemies? Was he stalking you? But why would he have these now–-"

Watson sighs. He is not the most brilliant man in all of England, but at least he had the foresight to fuck Sherlock into exhaustion and let him finally lie in while he tackled this business. "He–-you said there won’t be any charges? He, um–-"

"I suppose he got them from his mum," says James.

Watson smiles. "So to speak. May she rest in peace."

After a beat, Lewis laughs. "Don’t tell me–-his mum was Grace Orde? Oh, Lord, that makes sense."

"Grace Holmes, aka Grace Orde, yes," says Watson.

Lestrade is confused. "What? The former MI5 chief? Why would she–-oh. Oh. Are you…are you?"

"No," says Hathaway.

"A road not traveled, in the end," says Lewis, obviously savoring the increasingly unfamiliar sensation of having the upper hand in a conversation to do with his own case, taking place in his own bloody station. "Ha! And what, Sherlock Holmes has her old files lying around to rifle through?"

Lestrade looks uncomfortable.

Watson flexes his hands impatiently by his side. "He has a...a contact in the...he has, he's Sherlock Holmes, it's not fucking hard for him to find things. Are we done, then?"

"For now," says Lewis.

 


End file.
